


despite the odds

by skateros



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (in a way), F/M, Fix-it fic, and writing this has been my therapy or closure or whatever, i just really love them a lot, i stan the stark sisters and it shows, lots of other characters make appearances, post-8x03, season 8 spoilers obvs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skateros/pseuds/skateros
Summary: Jaime and Brienne face the aftermath of a battle they’d never expected to survive. When The Long Night ends, a new day follows and Jaime must decide where his loyalties lie.(This is what happens when my brain works overdrive to fix the things I cannot fix. Influenced by but not beholden to the events of the show. I wrote the resolution that made sense to me: something hopefully romantic, tragic, redemptive. In which Jaime might die, but his character development lives. It picks up right after 8x03, 'The Long Night'.)





	despite the odds

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my dear friends [spinninginfinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinninginfinity/pseuds/spinninginfinity), [falsettodrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop) and [porcelain2ivory2steel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelain2ivory2steel) for reading this through and helping me shape it into something that may (or may not) be worth reading – your patience is amazing and you make me better. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this; writing it has been my post-8x04 therapy. I will warn that while many other characters make appearances in the story, I didn’t have the time to rewrite every little detail for a new ending, so it’s told entirely via third person limited in Brienne’s POV. I just love and miss J/B a lot and needed to work through my feelings. 
> 
> P.S. I’ve never written Thrones fic before and it shows, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

****As the dead begin to fall around them, suddenly, time starts to slow to something like normal. They’d been coming and coming and coming, so fast, it hadn’t allowed for a breath or a thought. Not since they’d found themselves back inside the walls of Winterfell, fending off the onslaught of death climbing up and over, ready to take them without mercy or feeling or reason.

But just as the dead refused to die, so had they.

They’d fought side by side, always so aware of each other’s movements. Every blow, every step, every near-miss. It was as though Jaime had moved as an extension of her body, their twin swords unifying in the midst of the battle. It was Ice alive again in the palm of their hands and Brienne could feel the gravity of it, the responsibility of defending Lady Sansa, Winterfell, all of the Seven Kingdoms. She could feel the weight of all of it in the hilt of the sword, and yet, with Jaime there, she hadn’t been able to suppress the need to defend him too. She’d done it in words – hurried, nervous words, the most she’d yet spoken in front of the Dragon Queen; now, she had done it in action too. And he had done the same.

For all that it had been a vast effort of allied forces across the breadth of the cold, harsh landscape surrounding Winterfell, as the Oathkeeper and the Oathbreaker fought as one, the scene had been reduced to an intimate communion of swords and souls. He had saved her and she had saved him. Side by side became back-to-back, and they’d danced their dance like learned choreography, the act of rescue passing back and forth between them until, suddenly, impossibly, it’s over.

 _It’s over_ , she keeps telling herself over and over. Over and over, _it’s over_.

Brienne finds herself staggering back towards the blackened stone of the castle wall, Jaime and Pod to her left as they watch the bodies fall before them. She can’t look away from the mounds of corpses that spread as far as the eye can see, ash snowing down upon them and smoke thick in the air. The horror of it sears into her memory, a black fog forming in her mind so that all she can see is bodies: friends, comrades, enemies.

It’s only when she feels Jaime reach out for her, his heavy golden hand knocking against the forearm of her armour, that she realises: she’s alive. It’s not something she’s prepared for, the after. That there even is an after, given everything they’d come up against, feels impossible. When she looks at him, his green eyes wide and shining amidst a blackened, bloodied face, she sees it staring back at her: the shock of surviving, the shock of being alive. The shock is so overwhelming, there’s no way to speak it. She can only stare, bewildered, back at him.

The two halves of Ned Stark’s sword held tight still in their hands, they look upon each other as vulnerable as they’ve ever been. An expression of gratitude passes between them in a sad nod, but Brienne can’t help but wonder at something else in his gaze, something more than that. His eyes bore into her, imploring and heavy; it’s heavier than anything she can carry at the end of this long night, so she blinks it off. She feels a single tear escape the corner of her eye to streak clear through the black of her cheek so she looks away, her gaze landing on Pod: just as alive, just as shocked about it.

“Lady Sansa,” she says, her voice coming back to her unsteady, as she begins to remember herself and remember her duty.

There’s a wry smile pulling at Jaime’s lips, her fealty as amusing to him as it always was. He says nothing, though. He sheaths his sword as Brienne does the same, then follows obediently as she heads down towards what’s left of the castle steps, her movement proving to be more of a clumsy, unsteady stumble through the rubble.

For all that they can see the damage around them, there are friendly faces that appear amidst the ashes. Brienne takes note of every survivor they pass, hoping beyond hope that the Stark sisters are among them, pushing the memory of the dead rising as far to the back of her mind as she can. As the urgency swells within her, her stride quickens; she pays no mind to the flashes of bruising, chafing, cuts and wounds she can feel. She’s on her feet, she’s moving, and so is Jaime. The rest of it can be dealt with later.

Jaime tries to keep up. She can feel him close behind, panting, moving a little less ably than her but with as much determination. _Tyrion_ , she remembers.

As they make their way through the wrecked yard inside Winterfell’s castle walls, the flickering firelight surrounding them reveals the haunted face of Sansa Stark as she walks out to view the scene. There’s fear in the way that she carries herself and a paleness to her face beneath the black soot that’s settling on her skin, but her quiet dignity doesn’t allow her to indulge the feeling. She studies the surroundings, the charred ruins of her childhood home, taking in the stark horror of war: the loud cries, the thick smell of burning bodies in the air, the ash stinging in her eyes. Despite all that’s come before, all that Sansa has seen, Brienne knows that nothing could have prepared her for this, the scale of the loss still undefined and yet undeniable.

Sansa moves closer, her steps slowed by the careful way she takes in the scene, and then, finally, she sees her sworn sword before her. There’s a look of such immense warmth and relief on Sansa’s face as their eyes meet again, Brienne can’t recall ever experiencing anything quite like it before. Looking as young as she’s ever seen her, the elder Stark sister rushes into her arms to take her in a hug. It’s a sisterly embrace, Sansa’s appreciation buried in the shoulder of the armour. “Lady Brienne,” she hears, and it’s almost a sob. “You’re alive.”

“I am, my lady,” is all she can think to say. “As are you.”

When Sansa draws away, her lips tight as she recovers her composure, Brienne notices Jaime crouching to embrace Tyrion beside her. _Alive_ , she thinks again. It seems an incongruous thought given the death that surrounds them – bodies upon bodies upon bodies – but it’s all the comfort they have.

“What happened?” Sansa asks, looking around them again at the wounded soldiers limping their way back, at the survivors rushing to attend the bodies, at the black ash carrying death in the air.

“I don’t know,” Brienne answers truthfully.

“My sister–” Sansa starts, an urgent question buried inside it. It’s another one that Brienne doesn’t have an answer for, her head bowing regretfully until she hears the words repeated, the question gone. In a gasp, Sansa whispers again, “My sister,” before moving hurriedly past the others.

Brienne turns to see the silhouette of Arya Stark walking towards them, pushing her crippled brother along. Mere seconds later, Gendry marks himself out from the dark crowd, rushing from the far side of the yard to take Bran’s wheelchair from her. Though the rush of adrenaline on Gendry’s part is plain to see, Arya only gives a small, grateful smile back to him: calm, self-assured, undaunted by all that surrounds her. It’s curious, Brienne thinks, that a girl of her age should be so used to death that it can leave her unmoved. And yet, when Sansa rushes to meet her, she’s relieved to see Arya’s humanity revealed at once. She stops to receive her sister in a hug that has the elder girl bent over to meet Arya’s height, while Gendry continues pushing Bran towards the castle.

As Brienne watches the two of them together – the brave Stark sisters, the girls she’d sworn to Lady Catelyn all those years ago that she would protect – _alive_ , she allows herself a small, grateful smile of her own.

“They said no one can end the Long Night,” Bran says, voice flat and enigmatic, as he’s stopped before them. “She is Arya Stark.”

Gendry is quick to twist around for another look at Arya, appraising her anew. Bran barely gives him a moment before stating coolly, as though his home is not breaking and broken around him, half in ruins, “I would like to return to my room now.”

Faces from different armies and different houses move between Brienne and where the Stark sisters stand. Some of them are crying, some are silent, some are carrying others in their arms or on their backs. In the background, Sansa and Arya are still and safe. Her promise remains kept.

Brienne’s focus stays fixed on the girls as she watches Bran’s revelation pass between them. She knows by the way Sansa responds, a deep breath heaving out of her and then a smile, an awed nod of her head. There’s no look of surprise that Brienne can see. It’s respect and gratitude, the deep-rooted belief that Arya’s strength had been cultivated for such a moment. They are two sisters who’d lost everything and had to fight their way out of childhood just to survive, to come home; _of course it would be these sisters who would bring about the end of battles that will one day become legend_.

As Brienne watches Arya reach for her sister’s hand, she realises that there’s grief to be addressed alongside victory. Inevitable as loss might be given the circumstances, it does nothing to take the sting out of it. The shock and pain of the news is clear, even as Brienne watches Sansa lift her head high. The rare handhold between them gives it away, and there’s the way that Arya’s eyes linger with concern.

“They’re safe because of you. All these people are saved because of you.” Brienne hears Jaime’s voice, a teasing lilt to it that has her half-convinced that she’s daydreaming. It’s real, though. The rough warmth of it sparks something inside her that the sight of his half-smile sets aflame when she glances directly at him – still there, still beside her. He’s watching the Stark sisters just as she is.

“That isn’t quite true.”

“I’d say it is, _Ser_ Brienne,” he continues, a renewed confidence about him that she finds as maddening as ever. His brow furrows in thought, the look of it a little mocking. “If you hadn’t come to protect Lady Sansa, they’d never have taken Winterfell back from the Boltons. She’d never have seen her sister again, her sister who just saved us all from certain death. I’d say you had a fair amount to do with it.”

Brienne refuses to look at him then, unable to bring herself to argue the point. She can feel his eyes on her, staring smugly no doubt.

When he speaks again, his voice is solemn and earnest, any hint of teasing gone. “You swore an oath and you’ve kept it admirably. If Catelyn Stark was here now–”

“We’ve lost a lot of people. Today, and in the battles before,” she says, cutting him off. She’s unsettled by praise and she’s unsettled by Jaime Lannister; the combination of both prompts urgent redirection. “I dare say we’ll lose more in the battles to come.”

“Ever the optimist.”

She rolls her eyes, unable to muster a retort.

“And yet here you and I stand, despite the odds,” he points out.

Conceding on that score, Brienne adds, “Allies, despite the odds.”

When she looks over at him, there’s a true smile waiting for her. Beneath the blood and ash that’s set into his pores and permeated his beard, she can barely see his expression, but the smile is certain. She can hear it in his words: “I’d say we’re something more than allies now, wouldn’t you?”

At that, she feels herself melt a little despite her best efforts. It reminds her of the old romance novels she’d had as a girl: stories of princes and damsels. She is no damsel, and Jaime’s no prince, but the flutter in her gut harkens back to those silly tales that had always ended with true love’s kiss. It’s crazy, really, to imagine herself – a knight, never a lady, rejected for her appearance by all who’d ever been promised to her – with the Lannister lion of Casterly Rock, once Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, whose remarkable good looks were well-known across all of the Seven Kingdoms.

He could never love Brienne of Tarth; her head tells her as much. And yet, something in her heart – beating as it does, faster with him beside her – gives her pause.  

“Ser Jaime–”

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa cuts her off, striding back towards them alone and with fresh purpose. She carries herself with all the composure and command of a true queen, the grief-stricken look on her face now passed – suppressed, most likely, to indulge once alone, if Brienne knows her lady as well as she thinks.

Jaime appears a little disappointed at the interruption, but turns graciously nevertheless. “Lady Sansa?”

“I would be grateful if you could escort Lady Brienne to her room. I fear she will dispute the matter without your influence,” Sansa remarks, a mischievous look in her eye as she catches Brienne’s.

“I must help with the bodies, my lady,” Brienne insists.

“You must rest first. It’s been a long night,” Sansa replies, the stubborn toughness of her lady mother coming through. Her tone is immovable and certain. There’s an unwavering decisiveness about her, all measure and might.

Brienne manages to contain her reluctance to a sigh. There’s no fight left in her, regardless. “As you wish, my lady,” she concedes, giving a reluctant but obedient nod.

“Are you hurt at all?” Sansa asks before they can turn away.

“No more than a little bruising,” she assures her.

Sansa nods, taking her at her word despite evidence to the contrary. “And you, Ser Jaime?”

“No more than a little bruising,” he echoes.

“You will tend to your wounds and rest as long as you need,” Sansa instructs them both, her focus evenly spent between the two of them. Brienne can’t help but feel a little pride at Jaime’s inclusion, even if Sansa’s concern is expressed merely as a formality. The conversations they had shared upon his arrival, as though he was not present, now feel long-passed. They’d fought death and won since those days, since that day, since yesterday. Only yesterday.

Sansa leaves them as they leave her, headed in opposite directions. She will find Jon, Brienne assumes, and assemble groups to manage the clean-up and recovery as she had been planning before the battle. Brienne and Jaime instead go to the private quarters she’s kept since the Starks had reclaimed the castle, the room where she’d spent many nights dreaming of him, dreaming that he’d come north to fight alongside her.

Some nights, she would drift to sleep with his face in her thoughts, dreaming of gold-green eyes that could hold her gaze for an eternity, and that would be enough. On other nights, she would imagine him dancing with her in Renly’s place, her most treasured memory rewritten with the Lannister heir leading her around the room in perfect step. The way they’d sparred with swords made it easier to imagine their bodies fitting together in a dance, the two of them guided by the music alone and lost in each other. Sometimes the dream would continue after the dance was over and, instead of a courteous smile, he’d leave her with a kiss and a promise. Occasionally, if she ever slept long enough, he would stay. He’d stay through the night and, until the fresh morning air undid the spell, she was warm and sated and loved.

“Ser Brienne,” he says abruptly as they walk together, the words bringing her out of her reverie. They’ve reached her door. She doesn’t quite remember telling him where her room is but she finds herself unsurprised by the fact that he knows. “Can I–?”

“Yes,” she replies calmly, filled with a great deal of certainty. All she truly knows is that she doesn’t want to wake up from the dream just yet; she doesn’t want to be left alone inside the nightmare of all that they’ve witnessed. Instead, she leads him inside.

They find the room so dark and cold that it prompts her to rush in to relight the fire, overtaken by a sudden need to occupy herself. It’s as she attempts to move quickly, for the first time since the battle had ended, that she realises her limitations. She becomes conscious of the heavy iron suit weighing her down and of every throb of pain she’d been able to ignore until now.

“You should remove your armour first,” he tells her quietly. There’s an attempt to be casual about the words, to say it as it is: a reasonable assessment. The context carries too much weight for the attempt to work, however. It’s heavy. Heavy as the armour itself.

With a keen determination just to prove him wrong, she manages to get the fire going anyway. She is slowed by the burdensome metal frame but perseveres with the task undeterred.

Brienne senses him moving about the room behind her and hears him place his sword down. She keeps her back turned, the prospect of looking at him as dangerous as ever it was. She doesn’t need to look around to know the way he’s studying his surroundings, assessing this space that’s hers and decorated – or not decorated, as the case may be – with utilitarian simplicity. It’s nothing like what he must be used to in the Red Keep or at Casterly Rock. Not a hint of gold, not a hint of any colour at all besides the gloomy brown of wood and rust.

When she dares to glance over her shoulder, to her surprise, she finds him not looking about the room at all. His eyes are fixed on her. It’s a look that causes her breath to catch in her throat. It reminds her of when he’d given her Oathkeeper, of their farewell in King’s Landing, of their reunion at Riverrun, of the moment he’d made her a knight. It reminds her of the Jaime that lives in her dreams, the look he gives her so unguarded and wanting that it can’t be anything but a dream. No man has ever looked at her quite so reverently, the affection staring back at her somehow undeniable – despite that her very first instinct is to deny it. _I love you too_ , she finds herself thinking.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, barely more than a breath.

“Ser Jaime,” she replies softly, “it is _ser_ now.”

“If it’s alright with you, while we are not on the battlefield, I should like to consider you a lady.” There’s a determination in the set of his jaw, lifted to meet the height of her gaze. “Just as I did before.”

“You did not always,” she can’t help but point out.

It seems to wound him, his eyes dropping away from hers. “That’s as may be. But, Lady Brienne, if we are to recount all of my past mistakes, I fear we are in for a very long night indeed.”

“You are not your mistakes.” She raises a hand to hold his blackened cheek against her palm, commanding him to meet her eyes once more. When he does, it’s more than she anticipates. The boldness of his gaze prompts a wave of heat to rise through her body from the apex of her legs. She has to look away just to find her words. “You are a good man. You have saved my life. More than once.”

“Just as you have saved mine. We seem to have made a terrible habit of it. My self-preservation instincts are always rather lacking whenever you’re in my company, for some strange reason.”

Drawing her hand away, Brienne quietly admits, “Whatever the reason, I'm glad you're here. That you came north to fight. For the living, for Winterfell, for–”

“For you, Lady Brienne.”

He says her name like a sacred vow, like an oath he’ll forever keep.

It stops her in her tracks, her eyes dragging slowly upwards to meet his. They are wide and glittering, just as they had been as she'd arisen newly knighted. His jaw tightens, his expression hard and unwavering. _For you_ , she replays in her head. _Can it be?_

His hands – one real and one golden – move to the metal plates of her armour as silence settles over the room. She hears only the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of outside, too mixed together to be anything more than white noise. Then there is the sound of him clumsily removing pieces of her armour, careful and slow, his eyes flicking up at every small flinch of pain she gives. Unsure of what else to do and seduced by the possibility wrapped up inside the gesture, she simply stands there and lets him take her apart, the suit of armour coming off piece by piece. She finds the undoing of her physical defences to be a natural conclusion to their courtship, if that’s truly what it is; she’s still too caught up in the dream of it to open her eyes to the truth.

It’s only when he requires her assistance that she feels her nervous anticipation exposed. She helps him lift her breastplate to reveal her discoloured shirt beneath it, dirtied and bloodied from the fight, and then Brienne requites his efforts, relieving Jaime of his own armour.

“You’re hurt,” he says, his words rough and low, as he notices a purple bruise showing through where the tie of her shirt has come a little loose. His hand moves to it, settling gently against the curve of her neck, the touch reverent and cautious.

She closes her eyes before flashing them open again in a moment of self-consciousness.

When he catches it, noticing Brienne’s panicked embarrassment, he simply stares back at her. The look seems to last forever; Brienne notices every second passing by because she can’t quite seem to breathe through it, instead frozen in anticipation. His touch guides along the line of her shoulder, featherlight and careful not to cause her pain – but it’s not pain that fills her. It’s not pain that courses through her veins, making her feel lightheaded and soft-kneed. It’s not pain that escapes on an urgent, desperate breath when at last she finds air.

Jaime moves forward, shifting onto the front of his feet to press a gentle kiss to the purpled blemish at her neck. His hands come up to pull the tie of the top undone, struggling a little before she pulls back to ask, “What are you doing?”

“Taking off your shirt,” he states simply. “We are alive, Lady Brienne. I should rather like to celebrate as much.”

“Why would you want–”

“I could ask you the same. But you do, don’t you? You want me just as I want you.” Before she can answer, he adds, “I can always fetch Tormund Giantsbane. It’s not too late.”

“Ser Jaime–”

“You two seemed to be getting along rather well. I’d hate to get in the middle of anything there,” he carries on, and she’s relaxing in his arms now, the playful teasing of their familiar badinage making things easier.

“Ser Jaime, jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“Gods, well, this shirt doesn’t much suit you.”

He pushes the fabric back to reveal the expanse of her chest, a collage of pinkened scars, fresh cuts and splotches of bruising. As the shirt falls away, Jaime’s eyes drift to the deep-set scars on her shoulder. The three rough drags of pink mark out the lines where the bear had once clawed across her skin, the violence having torn harshly across the surface, threatening worse to follow. It hadn’t, of course. He’d thrown himself into the pit to prevent the worst of it, just as he’d saved her before, just as he’d saved her since.

Allowing his attention to linger on the scars of their past, Brienne moves his left hand to rest over the marks. His eyes meet hers as his palm settles flat against her skin, and the touch is electric, a flare of heat stirring again from her centre.

She is certain now that if he withdrew, it would be too much. It would break her heart.

The strange thing is, she studies his expression as he holds his hand to her scars and finds him much the same. If she can trust her reading of him at all, he feels as she does. The pull that stops her heart stops his in time with it.

Carefully, she glances down to find the straps of his golden hand. He looks a little surprised by the gesture but allows her to continue, watching attentively as she undoes the fastening to leave his stump bare. It reveals the skin a little raw, weathered from having rubbed his ornate prosthetic throughout the fight. She moves to place the hand on her side-table and then returns to him, lifting the swollen, red stump where his sword hand had once been to her lips before helping him lift his shirt over his head. It feels bolder than any move she’s made thus far, the thrum of her heartbeat loud in her ears as she makes her intentions as clear as day.

She glances up at him for some small sign of reassurance only to find his eyes wide, the whites of them contrasting the darkness covering his face. He looks at once awed and afraid. As Brienne exposes the frayed seams of him, she realises that he, too, is just as unsettled by her. The once-golden knight without armour is the same as any other man: vulnerable and flawed, this one more flawed than most, and Jaime had never before known what it was to reveal those ugly and broken parts of himself to another person and have them not shy away in revulsion. Those were always the parts she’d loved most, she understands now, because they belonged to her and her alone.

Wanting to give the impression of confidence, she allows his arm to move back to his side and simply lifts her head up straight again. _We all have our scars_ , Brienne thinks. Every one of them is a reminder of the man she knows: brave, impulsive, loyal. He is led by his heart in every action and every decision, and yet here he stands before her, inside the bone-deep cold of Winterfell’s castle walls, having defied almost-certain death for the pleasure. Led by his heart, if Brienne can ever believe it.

She looks down at herself, her ungainly figure bare before him with none of the natural elegance of a true lady. And then she looks back up at Jaime, his eyes soft, as if he were appreciating great beauty.

“Could you ever love a man with shit for honour?” he asks suddenly, no hint of wryness in his tone. It’s as real and direct as he has ever managed.

She considers his question carefully and then replies, simply, “No.”

His expression pinches, disappointment flooding his face.

“But you _are_ a man of honour.”

Jaime’s hand moves up her back, the trail of contact leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake. The skin he touches tingles with it, brought to life at his touch. It’s unlike anything she’d dreamed, the realness of the moment eclipsing the best of her imagination.

His hand holds her face as he sweeps his thumb gently along her lower lip, ghosting across the surface, the tips of his fingers buried in her hair. His intent is unambiguous, Jaime’s eyes drifting to her lips as his own part in anticipation. She mirrors it, the teasing of his attentions filling her with an aching need for release.

When at last it happens, when he finally kisses her, he lifts onto the tips of his toes and gives a tender and cautious press to her mouth. It’s disappointingly chaste only briefly – until he coaxes her lips apart, messy and desperate and everything she feels. Brienne falls into the depths of the kiss, her first kiss, the striking newness and dizzying satisfaction consuming her every thought as their bodies come together. His left hand guides over her shoulder, along her arm, settling at her hip with a careful touch to hold her flush against him. Skin against skin, it feels like a continuation of their union in battle. Instinct leads every action. Their cries of exertion are replaced by soft, pleasured moans.

With his heartbeat thumping against her chest, they stumble haplessly towards Brienne’s bed and fall against cold, starchy sheets. After they land, Jaime breaks away from her embrace briefly to gaze down at her body lying awkwardly about the small bed, the spread of her blush responding to his eye-line as she shies under his attention. Instead of coming back to her lips, he kisses his way down her body, marking a path along the plane of alabaster skin that’s exposed. He only hesitates at her breasts, his hand gently kneading one as his mouth goes to the other. When he draws back all too soon, she notices Jaime study the red marks along her skin there, a reminder of all they’ve been through, of all that her body has endured. It dawns on her that he’s being careful not to hurt her; it takes a moment to realise because she can barely feel the sting of it now, her thoughts too far from the pain to pay it any mind.

Despite the unsightly bruises and blemishes that colour the vast white expanse of her chest, his eyes are dark, the spotlight of his admiration something she’s never felt before. It feels like he’s everywhere, the effect of his gaze as sensitive as his touch. The feeling begs for relief, even as she attempts composure, desperately mustering some pretence of experience and confidence and smoothness.

When Jaime comes to the waistband of her breeches, his eyes dart up for approval. Whatever he’s looking for he finds quickly, and it comes as a relief when he moves to pull them down. Brienne can feel the urgent ache between her legs building with every gentle brush of his touch, with every ghosting breath hitting the sensitive skin just above the fabric.

As he fumbles one-handed at the tie, she feels him press light kisses to her torso between the attempts. She knows he’s doing it to divert her attention from his failure. The impatience of the way he pulls at their clothing betrays his self-consciousness, but she’s glad for the opportunity to be the one to offer reassurance. She’s glad not to be alone in her fear. In the end, as casually as she can manage, she shifts up a little to assist in his efforts before helping him out of the rest of his clothes.

His frustration is plain to see, jaw grinding as he meets her eyes. “I’m sorry, I–”

“You don’t need to be,” she promises, reaching to caress his cheek in an attempt to illustrate the point. “Please.”

As though compelled to prove a point, he moves further down her body to settle himself between her legs. She lifts her head up to watch him there, to watch as he slowly – painfully so, the aching need building with it – presses more kisses along the inside of her thigh, marking out a path, careful to avoid every bruise and mark he can see. It’s so deliciously delicate, a glorious contrast to the desperate aggression that had preceded it on the battlefield, she finds herself softening at his touch. Her legs open for him, ready for when he loops his hand around one of them and lays his right arm along the side of her body to hold her to him. She’s never felt more vulnerable; she’s never felt more alive.

 _Alive_ , that impossible dream that she hadn’t dared imagine only a few hours before.

 _“I think we’ll live,”_ Tyrion had declared with a spirited confidence that she couldn’t share.

 _It was the perfect last night_ , she’d thought to herself with such conviction as they’d all sat around the fire, and that was comfort enough. She would die a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.

And yet, here she still is, _alive_. It’s as though electricity is running through her veins, every nerve ending sparking something as he meets her with a loving, wanting touch: his mouth, his tongue, his fingers all conspiring solely to bring her pleasure and relief.

She stretches out beneath him, savouring the feeling of Ser Jaime Lannister’s face buried between her legs. _Gods, I must truly be dead after all_ , she thinks distantly, barely able to think at all, his mouth at her clit as he moves his hand to tease her sex before he slides his finger inside her, then a second. He won’t stop until she’s crying out for him and, _gods_ , it would be easy enough to surrender to it, to let him carry on like this until she’s trembling beneath his touch.

It’s not how she wants him, though.

She wants his face looking back at her the first time she comes. She wants to look into his eyes as they move together, rediscovering that oneness they’d found amidst all the fighting.

Using the single wit she still has about her, Brienne moves a hand to his hair, roughly fisting at a handful of it as she feels his teeth brush against her clit. When she recovers herself, she allows her touch to soften. She moves it to lay against his cheek and guides him to lift his head, the effort light but decisive. He’s looking up at her, his lips a little swollen, out of breath, more dishevelled than he’d been before. “Jaime,” she says, breathless as he is, and then she draws him back, wanting desperately for his mouth on her lips, his cock filling her instead of his fingers – something more.

With a hand guiding along the line of her body, Jaime shifts against the bed to lie along her. The movement of it allows his hardness to brush against her, certain and ready, enough to stir a deep red blush that starts in her cheeks and spreads down to her décolletage. He lets his weight settle over the length of her as he kisses her again, the taste of her still on his tongue when he deepens it.

Brienne reaches for him between them and the hitch of his breath gives away his surprise, but then he’s lining himself up with her, he’s moving inside her, and _gods, the feeling of it, the fullness_. There’s pain too, but it doesn’t compare to the pain that’s familiar to her: the pain of near-death, the pain of battle, the pain of rejection, the pain of missing him. This pain is overwhelmed by satisfaction, pleasure rippling through her body as he buries himself inside her, leaves her wanting, then fills her again. His hand finds her clit as their bodies move together and the intense bolt of pleasure at his ministrations catches her off-guard, eliciting a deep moan that seems to spur him on.

When his face pulls away to study hers, Brienne sees the beginning of a smile pulling at his lips. If she had thought he’d looked smug before, this is something else.

The next time his lips find hers, it’s messier than it ever was. It’s lazy, distracted, desperate.

She knows he’s close, his eyes are clamped shut to the feeling of it as his fingers work to help her along. Soon she’s there with him, close to the edge and ready to jump off it with him.

Brienne crashes over first, her legs trembling with aftershocks around him as his own climax follows. They cling to each other, as though for dear life, surrendering to the fall. There’s comfort in the way he lies depleted across her, face buried in the curve of her neck as the rest of him presses down against her freshly-sated body, the lines that mark out their figures now obscured.

Soon, he rolls onto his side and she turns with him. There are tears sparkling in her eyes that she can’t quite explain. Jaime brushes them away so casually, it takes her breath away.

“I love you,” he says plainly, his voice rough over the words.

“I know,” feels like the only reply she can think of, her instinct to reassure him overriding anything else. When she says it, Jaime pulls back from the kiss he’d been leaning into to look at her, a little startled, before laughter washes over his features. “I just mean–”

“Oh, no, Lady Brienne, you’ve made yourself very clear,” he teases.

“Jaime–”

“Brienne,” he says, as though it’s the answer to everything. The simple way he speaks her name, without title or mocking attached, undoes her completely. “As long as you know.”

“You’ll stay?”

It’s a question for tomorrow, but a simple nod is enough reassurance for the night.

Jaime shifts to bring the sheets up around them. It leaves him further away, but Brienne is quick to remedy it. She edges closer, her desire for his body heat as intense as her desire to keep him close.

Their fatigue swiftly consumes them both as they lie half-strewn across each other.

Sleep takes them with merciful haste, settling over the room as heavy as death.

 

*

 

When she wakes some hours later, the chill of the room has lifted. The fire still burns and she notices new logs have been thrown on it since her efforts the night before. Just to the side of the fireplace, she notices Jaime knelt with his back to her. He’s dressed now, though lacking the armour she’d grown used to seeing him in. He’s got her sword unsheathed before him, propped against the wall, his hand dragging a cloth carefully along the blade to wipe it clean. It’s already starting to shine again, glinting ever so slightly in the firelight, but he repeats the motion meticulously. He moves it up and down over and over, taking care of every mark, even as Widow’s Wail rests beside it still untouched.

“You can have it back,” she says as she watches him, her quiet words sounding loud against the silence.  

Jaime’s quick to snap his head around the moment he hears her voice. There’s a curious expression on his face, one that leads her to anticipate an eye-roll, a jab of some kind. “I’ve no use for two swords, Lady Brienne. What good are two swords with one hand?”

Brienne watches him turn back to Oathkeeper and continue to clean reverently along the blade of the sword.

“There’s no one else I’m inclined to arm, either,” he continues wryly, “since everyone but you, and perhaps my little brother, wishes to see my head on a spike.” It’s a frightening thought, one that makes her shudder, even if he is only being flippant. “It is yours.” _It will always be yours_ , a voice inside her head finishes for him.

The implication hangs heavy between them, his eyes fixed to hers as he watches her interpret his words. Under that intense gaze that he seems to do so little to subdue, she feels exposed, naked, suddenly conscious of herself laying bare but for the sheet that covers her while Jaime is dressed for the day. She begins to sit up, pulling the sheet with her, and scans the room for where her clothes had been abandoned the night before. It prompts Jaime to abandon his post by the fireplace to attend to picking up her tunic and breeches and bring them to her, sensing her sudden self-consciousness. As he walks over, his stride reveals the inevitable aches and pains he’s suffering: a limp in his step, an unusual lean to one side, a slight flinch when his right foot touches the ground. The easy confidence he usually carries himself with – shoulders high, looking every bit the golden knight – is diluted by the injuries, and Brienne notices how little he fights it, how unconcerned he seems with feigning soldierly dignity.

“You’ve been asleep for hours,” he says, the tone of it a little gruff. He places the handful of her clothing to the side of her on the bed. His voice softening, Jaime adds, “I thought I ought to be here when you awoke so that you weren’t left to assume that I’d fled in the night.”

Brienne realises only then how quickly she would’ve come to that very conclusion. He hadn’t given her the chance to assume the worst, knowing only too well that she would. She’d still been blinking herself awake when she’d seen him there, dutifully cleaning her sword as he waited patiently for her to stir.

Jaime moves around the bed to settle on the side where he’d slept, perching on the edge. It’s close without being too close, half a mattress width between them as she watches him intently in anticipation of what he’ll do next. She leaves her forgotten clothes in a pile beside her, her eyes meeting his as he tells her, with a little hint of glee creeping into his voice, “Lady Sansa came to check on you.”

Brienne’s eyes go wide. “She found you here?”

“Don’t look so horrified. The Stark girl is not a child anymore. She was practically winking you away when we left her together. She wasn’t half as surprised as you might imagine.”

“I must speak to her.”

“She has offered us use of her bath,” he carries on, the calmness of his voice a stark contrast to the understated panic that laces through Brienne’s own. “I should rather like to wash the memory of yesterday away.” He realises his mistake quickly, adding, “Not all of it, of course. I hoped you would join me.”

“I can’t imagine Lady Sansa was inviting you to bathe in her private quarters alone.”

“No, I admit, I’m relying on your pity here. The girl’s grown fond of you. The fact that she’ll put up with the likes of me proves as much.” His left hand pressing down onto the bed, Jaime leans his weight further over and Brienne finds herself closing the gap.

Barely above a whisper, she replies, “She trusts me.”

“She’s right to. And anything that earns me a hot bath has my full support.” He says it softly, stirring a low flutter, as he places his hand under her chin to draw her into a gentle kiss. She’s weak to his efforts, closing her eyes and smiling into it.

“It’s presumptuous of you to think I’d allow you to join me,” she tells him, so close that her lips brush against his as she speaks.

“You and I have shared a bath before, have we not?”

It’s undoubtedly intended as goading but when her eyes open to find his, the memory of Harrenhal passes between them in a silent exchange. It had been the turning point in their relationship. Not a day had passed that her thoughts didn’t drift back to Jaime’s revelation, the truth about the famous Kingslayer. She could recall his account of the events even now: _“Burn them all, he said.”_ She is as haunted by those words as Jaime. She carries his pain in the back of her mind, never doubting the truth of it. She remembers his voice rasping and broken: _“My name’s Jaime.”_

“Jaime,” Brienne whispers, drawing away to get a better look at him in close-up. The lines of his face are deeper now than she had remembered, carving out the proof of his age, and there’s the residue of dried blood set into his skin. Her fingers move to tease at the thick beard growing at his chin, the roughness of it evoking memories of the night before, of the hot friction between her legs, and, just as strongly, it reminds her of the other Jaime she’d once known: a bitter enemy, a reluctant ally, her most ill-tempered travel companion, her unlikeliest friend. Those are the details that her imagination had always smoothed over when she thought of him. It is the imperfections marked out before her, the dust and debris darkening his skin, that make her realise, despite the disbelief colouring her memories of the night before, “It was real, wasn’t it?”

She sees the faint glisten of tears sitting on his lashes as he smiles, not smug at all, only earnest. His hand caresses the side of her face, grounding her to him. “Yes,” he assures her.

“I don’t know if I thanked you.”

“Well. I don’t know that I’ve ever been thanked for _that_ before,” he says lightly, sharing a soundless laugh with her as Brienne rolls her eyes. A little space grows between them then, the tension in the room dissipating somewhat as he draws away.  

“I was thanking you for having my back out there,” she insists sharply, though her amusement sparkles in her eyes when they meet his. “I wouldn’t have survived were it not for you.”

“No, we’ve definitely been over this already,” Jaime argues, his tone light and playful. As though dismissing the very line of conversation, he moves to take a turn about the room, approaching where the two swords remain side by side. He struggles over every step until he’s stood before Oathkeeper, his fingers reaching to ghost along the hilt of the sword. “I’ll only accept thanks for the other thing.”

While Jaime’s back is turned to her, Brienne uses the opportunity to get up and get dressed, pulling the tunic over her head as she asks, “What other thing?”

“The thing that had you moaning loud enough for all the people of Tarth to hear.”

He’s not facing her when her head comes clear of her clothing. Without the daring look in his eye to confirm it, she’s left questioning if she heard him correctly, but the crassness of his phrasing sounds perfectly like the man she knows. It doesn’t quite manage to shock her. Instead, she replies, “You’ll have to be more specific, Jaime,” a coy smile pulling at her lips.

He chokes out a laugh before turning around to face her. “I’m Jaime now? Good. I was growing rather tired of the formalities. Shall we speak plainly from now on?”

“As equals.”

“I will never be equal to you,” he replies, infuriatingly resolute. Jaime seems to make a point of lifting his head to look up at her, though their height difference is lessened by the metres between them, as if to underpin his message. Growing serious again, more serious than she likes to see him, he says, “I’m not a good man, Brienne. But your goodness is infectious – rather like a terrible plague, ready to send me to an early grave.”

 _Impossible man_.

Her impulse is to argue. She could indulge his teasing with a cutting remark of her own, something that slices sharp and smooth, like the glide of her sword. She could allow him to lead her off-track, shifting momentum away from the affecting honesty of their exchange and toward something comfortingly familiar.

She’s wise to it, though. She knows him too well and she’s too tired so, instead of playing along, the argument she gives is a simple one, grounded in nothing but the truth as she sees it: “You kept your oath.” There’s an assured insistence to her words that gives away all the times she’s repeated them in her head, answering every doubt about his character with that same single truth.

Jaime scoffs at her. “That’s all that matters to you. That fucking oath.”

For all that he pretends to dismiss it, she knows that _that fucking oath_ means as much to him as it does to her. She had seen it in his eyes the moment she’d said the sword would be named Oathkeeper, eyes haunted by the derision of every lord, lady and peasant in the Seven Kingdoms. A kept oath meant everything, for all that he could never admit it, and so, with her head high and her voice clear and even, she states simply, “You are a man of honour.”

The hard edges of his expression soften. “Whatever honour I have, it is thanks to you.”

Brienne presses her lips together, suppressing the fight she’s ready to put up. _Stubborn fool_ , she thinks irritably, irritated most of all at herself for loving him all the more for it. It begs a question that’s lingered in her mind since the moment she’d first seen his face again: “What will you do now?”

She finds herself moving closer to where he remains rooted to the spot, seeking out the nuances of his facial expression for her answer. His eyes seem to study her just as intently, guiding over her features the way they had before he’d kissed her some hours earlier. The way he looks at her, she can feel his gaze brushing over skin, making her ache for his touch.

“Whatever I must,” he replies after drawing out the pause. The ambiguity of it rankles her, and it clearly shows because eventually he clarifies, “To earn my keep.”

“You will stay in the north?”

He laughs, just a little. He laughs in a way that feels cruelly reminiscent of a bad memory. He laughs and it makes her wonder how she ever believed a word he’d said. And then, with more certainty than she can believe, he says, “I will stay with Brienne of Tarth, as long as she will have me.”

“I thought you hated the north.”

“I do. I hate the fucking north. I hate the north, I hate the cold, I hate Sansa Stark looking at me like I killed her fucking puppy. That ugly task fell to her dear late father, need I remind her.”

“Jaime,” she warns.

“Of course I’m staying,” he spits out, almost angry but not quite. “Since my plan to ride north and die for you on the battlefield didn’t quite work out, I suppose I shall just have to live for you instead.”

“Are you–are you mocking me?”

He rushes the few steps towards her, holding his hand to her face reverently. It’s impossible to look anywhere but into gold-green eyes, shining with promise. “No.”

“You’re staying here, at Winterfell?”

“If it’s what you wish. You are my commander.”

She contemplates a smile but ultimately decides he’d enjoy it a little too much. In the end, she settles on a brief kiss. A kiss will do.

“Now, about that bath…”

 

*

 

Their strange, precarious contentment carries on into another day, and another. As it begins, she anticipates that each time will be the last, but still he returns to her bedchamber as darkness falls. The fire in his eyes seems to burn only brighter with each new morning and each new night together. Brienne finds herself more at ease with every encounter, gradually learning to assert herself with the same confidence she has grown into on the battlefield. The pleasure is much improved as her trust in him deepens, as she shows him more openly what she enjoys most and learns to read his physical cues in turn.

Jaime tells Tyrion soon enough, before his brother heads south with the Dragon Queen. She surmises as much by the knowing look Tyrion gives her the following day: warm, if a little unsettling. Later, when they’re seated beside each other for supper, he whispers, “My brother seems quite refreshed, wouldn’t you say, ser? I dare say there’s a little spark in his eyes this evening.”

“Ser Jaime looks well, my lord,” she replies curtly, refusing to look up from the sorry meal in front of her.

Facing them from the other side of the table, Jaime preens at his younger brother. Brienne can’t quite meet his eyes but she notices him smiling and raising his eyebrows in her periphery. It is moments such as this when the urge to hit him comes rushing back, fresh as the day she’d been handed the defeated Lord Commander of the Kingsguard as her griping prisoner.

“The love of a good woman does wonders for any man,” Tyrion continues, and Brienne can’t stop herself from seeking out Jaime’s gaze then, despite her best efforts. His eyes are soft, his features complemented by the warm glow of the firelit room, and she can’t help the blush she feels flashing in her cheeks. “As does a good fuck.”

Jaime’s expression transforms instantaneously, sharpening to send a look of admonishment to his younger brother. “Tyrion,” he scolds.

Tyrion raises his hands defensively. “We’re among friends.”

“I’ve not quite decided whose side you’re on yet, my lord,” Brienne is quick to retort, the humour dry enough that it unsettles the younger Lannister momentarily.

“This from the woman wielding the Lannister sword to defend the lady of Winterfell? Pray tell me, Ser Brienne, which side is my dear brother on?” Tyrion holds her gaze as he speaks, a glint in his eye that keeps her on edge, before he turns back to Jaime. “Is it the left or the right?”

Pod stifles a laugh as Brienne feels her cheeks colouring again.

Slurring his words for a theatrical touch, Tyrion adds, “You’ll forgive me, ser. I’ve had a little too much wine tonight. Perhaps it’s the wine that’s creating that odd glow about the both of you.”

“Perhaps.”  

“It’s not the wine, my lord,” Pod chimes in from beside Jaime, his own goblet held aloft.

“Thank you, Pod,” Brienne says brusquely, her glance far more scolding than Jaime’s had been, earning only grins from the three men sat with her. She can’t help it when her lips move to a shy smile of their own accord, nor can she help the way her eyes drift back to Jaime. He gives her the same look that he gives her often now, the one that makes her wish they were alone, the one that promises they will be soon, the one that only leaves his face when she kisses it away.

They return to the same bed for another night, the sleeping arrangements growing comforting and familiar. There is his side and hers, just as Tyrion had predicted. There is the shared responsibility of keeping the fire burning, the two of them taking turns to return to the room solely for the task. There is the corner where Oathkeeper stands beside Widow’s Wail while Brienne lies beside Jaime.

They return to the same bed every night for two weeks, long after Daenerys, Jon, Tyrion and their armies head south, spending their days occupied by the tasks of the half-destroyed castle and awaiting news of the war. Brienne remains north to guard Lady Sansa as dutifully as ever, while Jaime stays under the lady’s protection as a guest of the Starks. The improbability of the arrangement is lost on neither of them. An enemy, a prisoner, a guest: it is not a natural sequence of events, and yet the golden lion learns to live among the wolfpack. His presence grows less and less conspicuous, the northern men abandoning their animosity towards him at the trusted word of his lady knight and all those who’d fought alongside him in the battle they call the Great War. When Brienne sees Jaime about the castle during her days, he walks among the others in a dark cloak lined with the black fur of a true northman and she begins to wonder at it. She begins to wonder whether it can last, all the while knowing it can’t possibly.

The dread is always there in Brienne’s mind, the knot in her stomach reminding her that whatever’s good among all of the horror cannot truly last. She sees it in Jaime’s eyes too sometimes. It’s always in the moments when he doesn’t know she’s watching. A veil of melancholy covers his expression and she’s left to wonder if he’s thinking of Cersei or Tyrion, the furrow of his brow a little sharper when she settles on it being his sister.

When Brienne sees it, she lets him alone.

Often, just the sight of her brings him back to the present, his head shaking it away subtly as he greets her with a smile. Other times, he accepts the solitude without a word. Perhaps he doesn’t even notice her there, the steel grip of the memory holding onto him tightly.

He always comes back, though. He returns to her bed every night, falling asleep with his body aligned with hers and wrapped up in the warmth of it. As long as he’s there, he’s hers. He gazes at her like he’s looking upon the saviour of the living, intense and long stares that don’t shy away when she catches him out. It’s the very opposite of those distant moments of his that she pretends not to notice, a ray of light amidst a shroud of darkness. It’s happiness enough to pull her through day after day of fear and dread, the certainty of his love growing stronger and clearer every day. She feels it in his gaze, in his touch, in his kiss and thinks often of savouring it while it lasts.

Her worry soon comes to life with the arrival of a raven from the south.  

The report from Tyrion is delivered directly to Sansa at the moment of its arrival. She and Brienne are standing out in the courtyard discussing the repairs needed to the castle most urgently when the interruption comes. The Lady of Winterfell reads it in silence first, before reading it aloud to her loyal knight. The raven informs them that the Golden Company have proven to be heavily armed with scorpions, that Rhaegal was taken down and that scores of the northern men, the Dothraki and the Unsullied had been slaughtered in the midst of the fighting. It is far from over, but the skirmish has already left the army even more depleted. The queen, Tyrion states, is deep in grief at the loss of her dragon and refusing the company of anyone but her loyal Missandei.

The sheer number of scorpions had clearly caught the youngest Lannister off-guard, despite his best intelligence. Sources were being caught and killed swiftly and often, so the information had been increasingly unreliable before the armies had set out.

She’s still taking it all in, the scale of Cersei’s threat clearer than it ever was, when Jaime walks out into the courtyard. He seems to know exactly what they’re discussing, catching Brienne’s eye as she contemplates the situation. Her horror is written in her expression, bile rising in her throat, and much of the truth is communicated in a single glance.

“Your sister’s a monster,” Sansa states flatly when she sees him approaching, the momentary break in composure taking Brienne by surprise even when Jaime seems to anticipate it.

He offers no argument, looking sadly between the two women. “There’s word from the south?”

“Euron Greyjoy ambushed Queen Daenerys and her fleet. One of the dragons killed, the ships destroyed, many of the men fighting our cause caught in the crossfire,” Brienne explains, careful not to allow emotion into her tone for fear of offending either one of them.

“Our cause, Lady Brienne. But can we be sure it is _his_ cause?” Sansa cuts in to say, staring daggers at Jaime. “You defended Winterfell and fought well, I understand. But when your sister’s life is on the line, how can we trust your loyalty?”

“He has given us his word, my lady,” Brienne replies, a little sharper than she means.

“I always wanted to be there when they executed your sister.” Sansa turns fully to face Jaime, her eyes narrowed. “Seems like I won’t get the chance.”

He offers no response, bowing his head as the lady of the castle makes her leave. Brienne expects him to look back up at her, to talk to her when Sansa’s gone, but he only gives a courteous nod and walks away. It leaves her stood alone in the half-destroyed courtyard, looking alternately in both directions to see the shadows of her friends disappear from view. She contemplates following, feeling all too aware of her divided loyalties as she considers which path to take.

It is only later, when they’re alone, that Jaime speaks of it.

They eat without a word, with Pod oblivious beside them, before quietly retiring for the night while the young squire is distracted by the attentions of one of the northern maidens. The opportunity for escape goes undiscussed but both instinctively move to it, Jaime following Brienne’s lead as they walk back to the privacy of her room, still in silence. She can feel the tension building between them with every step, not unlike the first night he’d slept beside her. This tension is something different, though, unsettling and worrisome where it had once been bubbling with nervous excitement.

Once inside, they undress without uttering a word, their eyes never meeting for even a moment of silent communication to pass between them. Instead, they move to lie side by side, their cold, aching bodies separated by the limited space that the bed allows, and Brienne closes her eyes to the day.

The darkness allows all of her worries to wash over her, busying her head with every worst case scenario. Where the busy schedule of menial tasks and strategic meetings had consumed her thoughts for the hours that had followed Tyrion’s raven, the quiet allows her emotions to come to the fore. She ponders the reality of their situation in the silence: she really had chosen to love the one man in the world who would mourn the death of the queen. For all his sins, she can’t help her pity, nor her worry.

“She won’t stop,” she hears suddenly, the abruptness of his voice making it seem like something out of a dream. It’s only when she flashes her eyes open and sees Jaime wide awake beside her that she realises he’s speaking. “She won’t stop until every person that gets in her way is dead. Soldiers, enemies, innocent smallfolk. She won’t stop. Not if she thinks she’s protecting the child in her belly.”

“Jaime–”

He doesn’t look at her, instead staring straight up at the ceiling. “It’s mine. Did you know that? Another bastard child.”

The revelation stings less than it should, but she’d heard rumours of the queen’s pregnancy and could have come to the conclusion. It accompanies a certainty she feels in her gut that the child will never live. It cannot. Not when the army who defeated the dead are coming for its mother. Nevertheless, it is Jaime’s, and perhaps he doubts it. Perhaps he doubts which side of the war is the winning one, even if she’s certain of where his loyalty lies.

Brienne turns to lay her hand flat upon his cheek, the gesture lifting his attention to meet her gaze.

“You can’t help who you love,” she reminds him, “but you can’t save this child. It’s too late.”

“I can’t save the child,” he repeats, a scoff to it that feels like a sharp rebuff. “I couldn’t save any of them. I wasn’t a father to any of them. I had to watch that pig, that brute, the honourable Robert Baratheon call himself their father,” he speaks it mockingly, spitting out the name with fiery revulsion, “all the while making bastards of his own with every whore in King’s Landing.

“And I told myself that I was close enough to protect them. Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen. I know Joffrey was poison, Tommen a sweet fool, but Myrcella – she was a beautiful child, my daughter. There was little of her mother in her besides her golden hair. She was good and loving. Too good to be caught up in all of this.”

Brienne watches his face pale, the memories of his children flooding his thoughts as she listens in silence. He’d never spoken of the children to her before, not like this. It stripped away the arrogance that she had grown used to and fond of. He was bare before her now like he’d only been once before, his voice straining in his throat as he thought of his only daughter, the young princess poisoned by Sand Snakes.

She’d heard little of it, and nothing from Jaime himself, but always wondered at the loss and the grief he’d kept private. She remembered how fiercely Lady Catelyn had sought to protect her children, transforming Brienne herself into her young daughters’ devoted protector. That had been Brienne’s sole motivation from the day she’d fallen into Catelyn Stark’s service. It still pains her to think of every choice she’d made on her path to Winterfell that had allowed a moment of Sansa and Arya’s struggles to continue longer than necessary. She could only wonder at how it felt for Jaime to have outlived all three of his children.

“I couldn’t save Myrcella,” he says, tears escaping on broken words, his eyes glaring at her, haunted, as if not really seeing Brienne at all. She moves a hand over his skin gently, attempting to coax him back to her the way she could sometimes, but he’s too lost in it now. “I was going to tell her the truth about her mother and I, but as I started to say the words… she knew. I think it might’ve been the happiest moment in all my life. She looked at me as her father for only a few seconds. There was no disgust, as I’d always expected, as I’d always deserved, but a swell of love and forgiveness.

“I’d failed her all her life and yet she smiled – she always had the sweetest smile, the very best of Cersei’s with none of her sharp edges – and she let me hold her.” Brienne watches him smile to himself, an aching grimace of a smile. “My beautiful daughter.”

“She knew,” Brienne repeats the heart of it, reeling from the revelation.

“She knew. And then she died in my arms, blood streaming from her nose as she cried out to me.”

“She died with her father there to comfort her,” she offers, a glimmer of hope in her voice. She knows he’ll resist it but still can’t help but try. “Jaime, she knew you loved her. But you couldn’t save her.”

“I was her father,” he spits back, a fury behind it that isn’t meant for her. “Some kind of father.”

“You couldn’t have saved her. You can’t save this child, or your sister. It’s not–you can’t save everyone. The gods will decide.”

As if coming out of a daze, he finally looks at her, taking in the tears that have settled on her cheeks, taking in the worry line between her eyebrows. He says, “They’ll wipe out the city fighting over that cursed throne. Thousands of men, women and children.”

“Maybe not,” Brienne says, because it’s all she can think.

“Cersei blew up the Sept. You think she’s going to find it within her tender heart to be merciful now? She knows where every cache of wildfire in that city is kept. She knows because _I_ told her.”

“Jaime–”

“One queen with dragonfire, the other with wildfire.” His eyes drift from Brienne to the fire she has burning on the other side of the room, lingering on the flames as they slowly burn through the wood. “Do you think either of them merciful enough to protect the innocent of the city? Do you think this queen, the Dragon Queen, who your King in the North has sworn himself to – do you think she will protect the people of King’s Landing when her own people are being killed one by one by Cersei’s armies?

“They’ll destroy it all between the two of them. They’ll keep killing until there’s no one left to rule. That’s what that fucking throne does.”

Brienne moves both hands to his face, turning it sharply to face her. “Whatever’s left when it’s over, we will rebuild together. All of us.”

Before he can argue another word, she presses a hard, certain kiss to his lips and deepens it just as soon as he responds. There’s an urgency to their embrace, every action pleading and desperate: her hands pulling roughly at his hair, his tongue moving against hers, their bodies turning to meet each other. It’s nothing like the first time, or any other. It’s something else, the two of them getting lost in one another and giving themselves over to the physical release.

When he comes, fast and hard, he all but collapses over her with his face buried in her neck. Brienne can feel his hot breath hitting her skin as he lies there, spent. It’s as though all the strength has gone out of him: the strength to argue, the strength to worry, the strength to move. He’s hers. He belongs to her, the weight of his warm body surrounding her with comfort.

Softly, Brienne kisses the apple of his cheek, and then shifts so that Jaime is lain flat against the mattress again, ready for sleep to claim him. Even when it does, the tension in his face remains.

She watches over him for a while, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest, and decides that they’ll come up with a plan tomorrow. They belong in the midst of the action, she realises now. They are knights of the Seven Kingdoms. Tomorrow, they’ll figure out a way.

_Tomorrow._

_Tomorrow._

 

*

 

When Brienne wakes, the crisp cold has already set in on Jaime’s side of the bed. She stretches out across the empty space before opening her eyes, her hand smoothing out the wrinkled sheet where she’d expected to find him – both expected and not, her doubts persisting as they did. The knot in her stomach clenches and she closes her eyes tighter just to hold back the tears that threaten to spill free.

It’s just a moment, long enough to steady her breath, before she sits up to see Oathkeeper gleaming all alone in the firelight and feels her eyes fill once more. Beside it, she notices that new logs have been laid to keep the fire aflame. Something about the small gesture makes her heart ache a little more keenly.

Except for the fresh wood burning in the fireplace, as she looks about the place, there appears to be no other sign that Ser Jaime Lannister had ever visited the private quarters of Brienne of Tarth, his clothes and armour missing too. He’s gone. She knows it instantly, feels it in her bones. There is loneliness in the dark dawn of the day and it wraps its arms around her with such immediacy, it is as though it had been stood waiting in the shadows all along.

“Jaime,” she pleads into the silence, her voice wasted on nothing but the crackling fire.

The cruel predictability of his desertion had crept into every pocket of quiet, a small voice in the back of her mind reminding her that they were always doomed to fail. She feels every bit the fool for all the time she’d spent daydreaming of Jaime Lannister living among the northmen, watching him move about Winterfell as though learning his part. There were the promises he’d made, reiterating his commitment to following where she led so many times that she’d almost been convinced. He could never have stayed – not forever. The very idea that he had loved her even for a moment felt impossible enough. That it could have lasted? She barely lets herself contemplate it.

His abandonment, for all its inevitability, isn’t what stings the most. Despite all of her anger and grief at the decision, the greatest pain comes when she imagines where his path leads.

She knows him. She knows exactly what he’s doing, what he’s choosing.

In seconds, she’s on her feet, dressing swiftly before putting her armour on. She can get most of it on herself by now before she goes to find Pod for assistance with the rest. He doesn’t ask questions when Brienne comes to his door, but she feels all too aware that her heartbreak is plain in her expression even without explanation.

To his credit, Pod simply does as she instructs, and then looks up obediently as if awaiting her next command. If the look of her stirs pity, he does well to disguise it.

“Pod, you will guard Lady Sansa with your life until I return,” she commands him, without room for discussion. “If I do not return, I ask you to uphold the vow that I made to Catelyn Stark and protect her daughters.”

“You cannot go alone, ser.”

“Podrick, I assure you, I can and I will.”

He shakes his head, wincing at his own choice of words. “I only meant–”

“You must stay here. With Lady Sansa. I trust no one else to protect my lady.”

His eyes look up at her, sparkling in the silence, before he nods. “Then I will do as you ask. Pray, ser, can I ask–”

“I must help Ser Jaime. For all his sins, he’s proven to be rather inclined to heroics and, given that he once jumped in front of a bear to save me, I feel I owe him the same in return.”

“The queen will be much worse than a bear, ser.”

Brienne smiles a little at that, a nervous laugh passing between them. It feels easy, then, to admit the truth of it to her dedicated protégé: “Well, then I should like to spend the rest of my life having him make it up to me.”

It’s more than she means to give away, but looking into Pod’s eyes as he nods his understanding, she finds relief in the honesty of it, to share something personal – however naive or absurd it might sound to his ears. For all it’s worth, his reaction lacks the mocking she could still recall vividly from her youth. To love and expect love in return is perhaps not so ridiculous after all. That, at least, is a comfort.

She turns away from Pod at the door, leaving to load up her horse and set off before the day begins in earnest, but can’t help but glance back once more to give a grateful smile. For his service, for his loyalty, for his friendship. In truth, of all of Jaime’s gifts, Pod had become her most treasured.

As she makes her way through the passages of the Stark castle, Brienne contemplates the merits of confiding in Lady Sansa before her departure, to explain or apologise. Every thought of it feels impossible, though. In the end, Brienne leaves a short note in explanation but decides that it is finally time for her to make the decision for herself. Perhaps Sansa would have shown support instead of resistance, but it is Brienne’s choice alone.

Alone, she sets off under the cloak of darkness as the first light of morning begins to break.

There are a few of the northern soldiers lingering in the courtyard in the early hours, busy with tasks of their own, but none who would dare to question the noble Brienne of Tarth, the faithful sworn sword of Lady Stark. She gets away without a word of deception, setting out on the treacherous path south with only her horse for company.

The quiet of it is something to get used to. She is so accustomed to the sound of workmen in the yard, the clashing of tourney swords as the soldiers practice, footsteps and idle chatter echoing within the hard stone walls of the castle. There is also _him_ , the absence of Jaime. His gentle teasing had become familiar background noise, playful words whispered so close she would feel his breath upon her skin or flippant remarks called out across the courtyard. She had become so used to him – too used to him, she thinks now – within such a short space of time that it is being without his company, above all else, that makes the journey feel like such a lonely one. There had been so much life around her, even while there had been so much death too, it makes the path ahead now seem eerily desolate.

The Kingsroad proves to be less dangerous than it had been once, the armies too depleted to lose many to guarding smaller battlements and watching the roads. Certainly no great fighters would be lost to petty guardsman duties. Brienne, so used to avoiding the men of the five kings on her journeys, easily manages to evade the attention of the few soldiers, sellswords and scoundrels she does happen to encounter en route, but there are long stretches of nothing now. Where so much life and colour had once existed, there are only abandoned villages and little clusters of houses boarded up, the consequences of war plain to see all around her. It had been a cruel winter, even for the smallfolk who’d somehow managed to escape being caught in the crossfires.

Riding south with unwavering determination, Brienne barely takes in her surroundings except to remain wise to any potential threats. Her attention narrows to just the thought of Jaime, the journey passing by around her, details blurring as she moves quickly through one town and then another without incident. After a while, she doesn’t notice the unsettling quiet, the sound of the horse’s hooves kicking up dust disturbing otherwise silent landscapes. She doesn’t notice the weather shifting, her thick layers growing heavier as the warm promise of a southern spring begins to dawn. She doesn’t notice the familiar places passing her by, reminders of all that’s led her here.

The only moments when it really settles in her mind are the nights, when she’s forced to set up camp in clearings just off the main road, resigning herself to a moment’s rest. It goes against every instinct to keep going, on and on without stopping, but it’s more than three days’ ride to King’s Landing, even with the horse moving at pace. The rest is as much for the animal as it is for Brienne.

Stopping still feels like the greatest danger of all. It allows the circumstances to fester in her mind, the hurt of it creeping in only when she stays still long enough for it to catch up with her. The memory of waking up alone is so vividly realised once again every morning.

As the days stretch on, Brienne finds herself taking note of the passage of time mostly for all the distance it places between herself and Jaime. She feels increasingly aware, painfully so, that they had been mostly inseparable since he’d arrived at Winterfell ready to fight. There were hours spent apart, of course, their duties keeping them busy for much of the day, but there had been a routine to their nightly reunions. They lived their days with the knowledge of coming back together in the end, a knowledge she aches to have again.

Even as she follows him back to King’s Landing, there’s no guarantee that she’ll see him again. There’s no guarantee he’ll make it to his destination, his golden hand marking out his identity to any halfwit he encounters.

 _He can still fight as well with one hand as most with two_ , she reminds herself. He’d fought death and won, after all.

Still, her imagination tortures her in the darkest hours of the day, when she’s settling down to close her eyes. Pictures seem to flicker in front of her, obscured nightmares of how it all ends. She feels death thick in the air, the distance from the north doing nothing to quell the sensation. It’s all around her: the world preparing for one final clash, the War of the Five Kings ending on a battle of two queens.

Where the Battle of Winterfell had been so black and white for Brienne, the fight against death a simple if daunting one, the impending battle at King’s Landing does not evoke the same resolute confidence of her loyalty. She would not choose to die for either one of these queens, though she still may. The closer she gets to King’s Landing, the more barren the villages on her path, the more she wonders whether anyone will truly get to live when all is said and done.

Jaime’s words haunt her: _“They’ll destroy it all between the two of them. They’ll keep killing until there’s no one left to rule.”_

It doesn’t occur to her that he might have betrayed her until she’s riding into the city.

_“That’s what that fucking throne does.”_

The thought lingers only for a moment, a flicker, before her faith in him renews. She remembers the words he’d spoken back in the baths of Harrenhal, his voice cracked and rasping as he’d asked her: _“Tell me, if your precious Renly commanded you to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of men, women and children were burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?”_

He’s strong enough, she believes now. She has to believe in him, looking around at the chaos that bleeds straight from the heart of the city.

She reaches King’s Landing on the fourth day of her ride to find the fighting has already begun. There are people running desperately the other way while she continues on through the capital undeterred. The armies have broken through the gates, the Lannister soldiers and the Golden Company already pulling back against the force of the combined northmen, Dothraki and Unsullied forces.

Brienne abandons her horse before fighting her way through, unseen but for the glance of Jon Snow as he looks around at his brothers in arms. Above, Daenerys circles ominously before aiming a controlled blast of dragonfire at another squadron of Lannister-armoured men. There’s a question in his eyes as they look at each other, but she hasn’t the time to answer it. The fighting’s begun, the clock is already well past time.

She had ridden so fast, a part of her wonders if she could have beaten Jaime there somehow. If he’d taken another route. _Gods_ , how she wished he’d taken another route.

In her heart, Brienne feels certain that with all the stubborn resolve that had powered her on the days-long journey from Winterfell, he’d have ridden just as hard. Just as determined, wilfully obstinate, utterly impossible.

The problem now, as she feels the threat of time ticking like a bomb, is that she doesn’t know King’s Landing like Jaime does. She doesn’t know the many secret passageways into the Red Keep. She simply fights her way through, knocking down any man who stands in her way, the cacophony of screams and blasts all just background noise, secondary to beating of her heart.

By the time she reaches the final set of gates before the Red Keep, the previously impenetrable blockade has been half-destroyed already. She manages to move through them with relative ease, rushing to find a path she’s walked before – so long ago, the memory barely holds. It’s like trying to somehow unlock Jaime’s mind to find exactly the route he would take. _Where would Cersei be?_

Gut instinct is all she has to guide her, but it gets her far enough inside the stronghold to discover a line of slaughtered guards, the bodies marking out a trail. Whether it’s Jaime’s work or another’s, she doesn’t know yet, but it leads her in what feels like the right direction. It takes her to the heart of the building, poorly lit passageways all looking the same, but still she drives forward at pace until she’s coming around the corner towards the map room and the sound of a piercing cry stops her in her tracks.

It’s more than a cry. It’s like no sound she’s ever hard, the pain of it stinging in her ears. There is Cersei’s wail, undignified and full-throated, like a lifetime’s grief bursting out in a single moment, but she hears Jaime entwined with it, their voices singing out together: primal, guttural, desperate. It seems loud and strong enough to shake the walls of the Red Keep, the sound of it just barely preceding the first blast of dragonfire upon the castle; it comes as though in response.

When Brienne follows the desperate sound into the room, ignoring the clouds of dust that blow around her and the debris falling from above, she finds Cersei lying in her twin brother’s arms. His golden hand rests at the back of her neck as his sword hand grips the hilt of Widow’s Wail, its blade impaled in the queen’s lifeless, bloodied body.

“Jaime,” Brienne says, not loud enough to catch his attention before The Mountain strikes him hard, the violence of it tearing Cersei from Jaime’s arms. He lands a few steps away, crumpled, blood pooling beneath him, spilling out from under his armour. There’s red, she sees, at his head too. The Mountain is quick to land another blow, a crack sounding with the contact of it.

She’s seen Jaime maimed, broken, beaten; he’s survived all of it. Even as he lies covered in his own blood and his sister’s, almost unrecognisable, her horror and grief is laced with a hope that endures: the hope that he’ll come back from even this. He’s kept on surviving for so long and they’re so close to the end – so close she can almost see the other side – that to lose him in the coda of this relentless winter seems impossibly cruel. Instead of believing it, instead of accepting it, she does what she has to do, what she always does: she fights.

Brienne storms forward, but something _– someone_ – gets in the way.

 _The Hound_.

She hadn’t seen him looming in the shadows, but, suddenly, he’s furiously launching himself at Jaime’s assailant. His voice loud and rough above the thunderous blasts of Drogon’s attack, he says, “Hello, big brother.”

Quickly – quicker than seems quite possible – The Mountain regains his footing and turns to face The Hound fully, his hand drawing out a sword to meet Sandor’s own.

As the blades clash in front of her, Brienne hears a faint groan and can’t help a glance at Jaime. On the other side of the fight, his eyes open weakly, though he makes no move to right his strewn, twisted body. His stillness is haunting. In a split second, she feels her hope drain away; the grip of fear takes hold instead, as a compulsion to cry out in horror gets caught inside her throat.

Her attention snaps back to the brawling brothers a few steps away, stumbling heavy-footedly towards her. The rock-solidness of The Mountain is plain to see as The Hound moves around him, striking blow after blow to little effect. She watches, mesmerised, frozen, only for a matter of seconds, as the dead queen’s undead knight parries every strike all too easily. The Hound keeps fighting on, loud cries of exertion echoing through the old walls of the Keep, until suddenly The Mountain catches the blade, all of his brother’s attempts to pull it back futile now, their eyes locked on each other.

It’s the perfect opportunity to strike. It’s the opening she needs.

Brienne musters every bit of strength she has. She lunges forwards to knock The Mountain down in a single blow, his helmet falling free from the impact.

Taking advantage of having wrong-footed the great monstrosity, The Hound is quick to knock his brother’s sword from his hand. It gives him the opportunity to lay down a strike of his own, landing a great gash along his beastly, rotting face while Brienne readies herself for retaliation, her sword held ready to charge. She throws her weight behind another attack, launching herself at The Mountain’s back as he stumbles towards The Hound.

Together, unified despite all that has passed, old enemies fight together: one in front, one behind. They anticipate each other’s movements well, working together to gain the advantage against the elder Clegane. Dividing his attention, they persist in every kind of desperate approach – swords, fists, knees. Between throaty cries and grunts, Brienne hears The Hound bark, “Get fucking gone, you stupid bitch! You never knew when to fuck off.”

“Oh, do shut up!” Brienne spits back before thrusting The Mountain backward until he’s lost his footing, giving The Hound the chance to send a dagger straight through his brother’s head.

They back away side by side, expecting The Mountain’s great lumbering body to crash to the floor. It ought to be enough to bring the damn castle down.

They wait in anticipation, not daring to look away.

There’s blood running down the back of The Mountain’s head, oozing from where the blade is lodged deep and stuck there. If he’d looked inhuman before, now he is truly a beast. He appears no longer alive, something else entirely now, but still he remains on his feet, not dead either. The monstrous undead thing simply turns to face them, a terrifying look in his eye as he draws the knife out of his own skull and tosses it aside undeterred.

“Why don’t Cleganes ever seem to fucking die?” Brienne roars, the words coming out as a signal, a rallying call to action. They both throw themselves forward, the combined strength of Sandor Clegane and Brienne of Tarth forcing The Mountain backwards – still not quite killing him, though Brienne thrusts Oathkeeper into his chest for another futile attempt.

“He killed your fucking lion. Is that the best you’ve got?” The Hound calls out, and Brienne’s gaze finds Jaime once again, still lying lame over the bloodied map. It sharpens Brienne’s senses, her strength coming back to her all over again. The fatigue is vanquished, replaced with fury, and she charges at the solid form of Gregor Clegane so defiantly, she knocks him from where he stands, his weight thrown back until–

Drogon takes a chunk out of the castle wall directly behind The Mountain. Suddenly, with all the adrenaline pumping through their bodies, The Hound and Brienne find a reprieve. It is together that they defeat him, their efforts driving him over the walls of the Keep to fall into the rubble way down below. The unsteady struggle to the edge almost takes The Hound over too, but Brienne is quick to grab hold of his armour and pull him clear. Two fighters, beaten and bloody, stand tall as two pillars in the wreckage.

The relief of it doesn’t have a chance to settle before Brienne’s moving fast to Jaime’s side, just a few paces away from the blown-through wall.   

“Brienne of Tarth, always there to rescue me,” he stutters out as she brings him into her lap. The half-smile he manages is enough to pull her heart up into her throat.

“Jaime,” she whispers desperately, the word loaded with years’ worth of feeling. Her heart bleeds into his name, marking out a thousand promises she’ll never speak aloud.

“Kingslayer, queenslayer,” he corrects her, voice straining. “That is all I am.”

“No. Not all.”

“I’m sorry,” he says more clearly, his eyes fighting the instinct to close just so that they can meet hers. He looks up at her, an apology that she never needed laden in his expression. “I only ever brought you dishonour.”

Brienne lifts the corner of her mouth to try a smile as her tears betray her. She moves to comfort him, gently stroking her fingers through his hair, a soothing repetitive motion that grounds them together. “What good is honour? You loved me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he says, so wonderfully certain.

“And I love you,” she tells him for the first time.  

Jaime’s breath hitches, his chest convulsing. “You don’t have to–”

“You doubt me?”

He seems to consider it a little and then says, struggling over the words, “I know better… than to doubt the word of Brienne of Tarth.” He shifts a little in her arms, growing more and more limp where she holds him up. “I’m sorry for dying, then,” he remarks wryly, wincing still at the pain that seems to have spread to every part of him. The colour is draining from his face, all of it spilling out of his body to stain across the floor, her hands, her armour.

“You must live. Live for me,” she pleads.

“I will. I will live for you.” The strength of his voice starts to fade. “I will live and promise myself to Brienne of Tarth. Tarth,” he repeats, his words dreamy and distant. One last oath to break. “The Sapphire Isle. I should like to go there.”

The very idea is enough to break down whatever defences Brienne has left. _He would’ve come_ , she realises now, made breathless by the idea. He would’ve given everything up for the chance of a life by her side. After all the words he’d whispered to her in the dark, as their heads lay against their pillows, it shouldn’t come as such a shock, and yet she feels utterly unmoored by it. Tears spill freely, and promises with them: “I will take you there, when you are good and healed. We will make our promises out by the water, when the sun is bright and the birds are singing. And perhaps someday we might have a child of our own.”

“A very blonde child.” The corner of his mouth lifts to a smile. One last smile.

“Yes. A very blonde child.”

“That sounds nice,” he says, and then he slips away, his body slumping in her lap as she lets out a quiet, desperate sob for no one to hear.

Clegane comes to her then, stumbling around to pull her up, to lead her away from the crumbling Keep and the broken bodies of the Lannister twins, strewn across the map. He pulls at her violently, attempting to shake her head clear, perhaps, to remind her that the rubble will take them too if they aren’t quick about it.

Brienne struggles to her feet as the situation around her begins to dawn. She can’t leave Jaime there, lying dead where she had once found him reborn: at the spot that marks Harrenhal, his blood spilling out to Oldstones and King’s Landing as Cersei’s body lies across The Neck. Instead, she picks him up in her arms, struggling with the weight of his armour as well as him. But something else takes over, some deep well of strength is discovered. She carries him with her as The Hound, rather than arguing the point, rushes to help her pick up the slain Lannister: dead at the hands of his brother.

“Help me hold him,” she commands as he moves to sweep up the legs of the fallen knight.

They struggle their way out with the walls of the Keep crumbling around them, single-minded in their escape. Brienne leads with The Hound a step behind and Jaime held between them, bricks and debris landing all around them with only luck to keep them safe.

When they get out of the castle, the maze of King’s Landing is a ghost town, the bustle of the city silenced by fear: of one queen or another. They stagger through the capital, along barren streets where every home is boarded up as terrified civilians hide away. There’s a cloak of ash over everything. Every street looks like the next: grey and empty, but for the abandoned bodies of dead soldiers. Most of them wear Lannister armour, though it’s hard to make out the difference anymore.

They are moving towards the surrendered factions of Lannister man who kneel before the northern commanders she recognises when they hear the Keep fall behind them.

The castle falls hard in on itself, a cloud of red and grey exploding where the structure had once pierced the sky. It’s over, Brienne thinks, looking at Jaime’s unmoving face as she holds him up. For better or worse, it’s over.

Most of the city is saved, she considers, looking around at what’s left. The dragonfire had destroyed the outer city walls and the collapse of the castle had laid ruin to its immediate surroundings, but much of the civilian dwellings remain intact. The wildfire is untouched, just as Jaime had wished. Whatever the queen’s plan had been for response, Jaime had prevented it. She is dead, The Mountain is dead. Whatever is left of the Lannister armies and the Golden Company, it’s clear their forces must be close to surrender.

There seems to be only one remaining scorpion shooting into the sky now as Drogon flies majestically through the air, allowing Daenerys to survey what’s left of the city in the wake of the Red Keep’s ruin. _Stop_ , Brienne thinks desperately as she looks up at the only queen left. _Stop now, please. It’s over_.  

Still Daenerys flies overhead, circling the ruins of the Red Keep before marking out an ominous path through the sky, back toward the shores at the edge of the city. It’s deathly close to the scorpion that Brienne had spotted; it’s too close, it’s–

That’s when she hears the bells. They must know: the queen is defeated.

The bells begin to chime as a bolt flies up through the air, piercing the dragon in the chest. There are desperate puffs of fire that escape him as his wings flail frantically, blood raining down from the sky as he veers from one side to another. Brienne and The Hound stop stock-still in the street, watching in horror as the final dragon makes its heavy descent into the sea below. The white-blonde hair of Daenerys Targaryen is a distant speck in the sky, plummeting amidst the blazes of fire that are coughed out in bursts, her arms clutched tight to the very last of her children as the two of them, mother and dragon, fall together.

“No,” Brienne utters, but it’s over.

The bells continue to chime, the taunting reminder of a surrender too late.

The battle is won though, even without further firepower on their side. The northern armies, the Unsullied, the Dothraki now outnumber Cersei’s men – Cersei’s men who’d fought for naught but duty and a wage, while Daenerys and Jon had won loyalty and true belief.

“Power destroys even the good ones,” The Hound remarks, the words a little colder than Brienne can stomach. All she wants is to collapse to the ground, to indulge the kind of release Cersei had experienced only in death. But then he changes tack, just a little, and says: “City’s still standing, though.”

The dull consolation of it gives her the strength to move on. Brienne keeps walking with The Hound at her heels and Jaime in her arms until she finds a small alcove on one of the side streets, a place to rest. She stops to let him down, laying him across the stone so that she can truly look at him, the dead knight who had ended the war by killing his queen. “They’re safe because of you. The people of the city are saved because of you,” she whispers, holding him in her arms as she had in the map room, her forehead pressed to his.

“That isn’t quite true,” she hears, gruff and cold, and exactly as dismissive as she had been when Jaime had suggested the same to her once. Brienne looks up to see The Hound above her, a wry smile at the lips of her most unlikely ally.

She lets out a sob of laughter, tears trickling through the thick mask of dust that has set over her face like a second skin.

“We should keep moving, get out of the city.”

Brienne nods before finding her feet once more.

“I suppose you want us to bring him, too,” The Hound mutters bitterly. When she glances at him, though, she finds a softness about his eyes. “Breaking my back for a dead Lannister and the great bitch who tried to kill me.”

“For the knight who killed the queen,” she corrects him, turning back to Jaime.

She expects him to reply, “Kingslayer, oathbreaker, man without honour.” Instead, he concedes the point to Brienne, revealing only then the scene he had come upon in his quest for vengeance – in the seconds before their paths had converged. It is a peace offering, further proof that her faith in Jaime had been rewarded. “She’d had her hand raised to my beast of a brother when I found them,” he recalls, the lack of embellishment providing a strange comfort. “Thought he’d come back to her, no doubt. Let him close, close enough that he’d drawn his sword before she had chance to realise the truth of his return. I saw the look in her eyes: fire and fear.”

Brienne’s gaze lingers on Jaime, broken and bloodied and shrouded in the ashes of the city, but still the man she loves. The Hound laces a bitter laugh through his words as he adds, “She never doubted him, not until the blade went through her. She trusted him to be her fool forever.”

Then had come the scream, sharp enough to break all the glass in King’s Landing as it echoed around the halls of the Red Keep, cuing The Mountain to strike Jaime down with his sister dead in his arms.

It was the beginning of the end, the twin Lannisters dying together but at odds.

Quietly, Brienne says, “He was free.”

“Free, dead. Depends how you look at it.”

Brienne rolls her eyes with a fury, the irritation overshadowing her urge to cry. “Oh, shut up and help me with him,” she snaps, getting to her feet once more as she moves to lift Jaime once again. “If we can get him to Tyrion, we’ll have the protection of the queen–”

“Queen’s dead,” Sandor replies flippantly. Gesturing at Jaime, he adds, “And he doesn’t need protecting anymore.”

“Well, the king then. The King in the North.”

“He’ll be the fucking king of it all soon, like it or not.”

Brienne looks grimly at her companion. For all his bitterness, he’s hardly likely to be wrong on that score. It would settle Lady Sansa to know it, at least. That’s all the comfort Brienne can find amidst the horror that surrounds her.

She’d lost Jaime, but at least it might be for something after all. Something good and honourable.

 

*

 

There is a meeting that comes in the days after the battle, one where kings are made and the new order of things is decided. It is the reluctant appointment of the new ruler of Westeros, with none of the pomp and ceremony that had defined coronations of times gone by. For one thing, the usual setting for such occasions lies in ruins, forcing them to conduct proceedings in the barren, dusty dragonpit. For another, the fineries that are customary for such an event are sparse. Instead, there is an air of practicality about the place. Duty and honour is the order of the day where it once might have been pride and extravagance.

Hardly the charismatic showman, Jon Snow had barely uttered a word since the bells had rung out, since he’d watched the Red Keep fall from the skyline, since his queen had fallen with it. He knows his duty, though; he will do what is required to keep the peace, delicate as it is. Even in mourning, he sits at the centre of the row with his head held up, carrying himself the way his queen once had: solemn and stately, as though playing the part. His face is white as his name, eyes dark, but the set of his jaw is determined and dignified. Whatever grief he feels is kept from view, much like Brienne’s.  

With representatives for every great house present to witness it, King Aegon – as they call him officially now – names Tyrion Hand of the King and declares that his sister will be Queen in the North. They sit either side of him, with Bran and Sam further down the line while Arya and The Hound look on from the shadows.

A great many things come to be decided over the hours of negotiations among the gathered dignitaries. Tyrion vows to create a treaty of sorts, the foundation of a peaceful union between all of the rulers that remain: a promise for a new start, to learn from history’s mistakes as the people of Westeros come to rebuild for the future. It is so wishfully optimistic, Brienne wishes that Jaime were here now at her shoulder, griping cynically as she nudges him, returning his jibes with arguments in favour of hope. It’s all too easy to imagine his voice in her head, chiming in relentlessly – even when she knows she’d have told him to shut up if it were real. Especially then.

When it’s done, her backside throbbing dully from the many hours spent in the hardwood chair that bears an engraving of her sigil, she is called forth to stand before the king. While it’s a little unexpected, Brienne adapts quickly, her eyes finding comfort in Sansa’s, who is quick to offer a small hint of a smile. She notices Tyrion on the king’s right, whispering in his ear as the silent reassurance passes between the two ladies.

“You vouched for Jaime Lannister, Ser Brienne,” Jon says, his voice quiet now, most likely strained from the day’s endless discussions.

“I did, Your Grace.” She bows her head in deference to the new king.

“And he rode back to King’s Landing, without a word to you or to anyone else.”

“Yes.”

“To kill his sister.”

“And save the innocent people of the city, to prevent further bloodshed and avoid another war,” she is quick to correct him. It comes out stubbornly despite her natural shyness, her voice resolute in the face of the Seven Kingdoms’ new ruler. Brienne can’t help but view him still as the humble Jon Snow, a reluctant heir to a throne that no sane person could ever want to sit upon. The airs and graces do not fall upon him naturally and, as the day wears on, it grows clearer and clearer that he would rather be anywhere else. “Ser Jaime fought alongside us just as he promised during the battle against the dead. He saved my life more than once that night, Your Grace. And when the next war was beginning, he did what he could to avoid the same horrors repeated.”

“You think him a hero?” Jon asks, the question a genuine one. Whatever judgment he has, he keeps below the surface.

“I believe that he was a good and honourable man. He loved his sister, perhaps more than anyone in the world.” Her eyes search out Tyrion’s in the desperate pursuit of some understanding. In the background, she can hear the sniggering of strangers. She continues, steadfast as she ever was: “He didn’t know anything but her influence all his life, and yet he left her to fight for Winterfell. We can’t always help who we love.”

“And you loved him?”

Embarrassment pinkens her cheeks at that, but Brienne is no liar. She feels not a bit of shame to admit it now: “I did, Your Grace.”

“Then you will write of him in the White Book,” Jon decides, turning to nod some unspoken agreement to his Hand before turning back to her. “Write what you know of Jaime Lannister.”

“Your Grace?”

“I believe you were right to vouch for him, Ser Brienne. He killed the king, his men once attacked my father. And yet he did not seem an evil man but a troubled one. It is fitting that you should determine his legacy as I believe it was you he acted for, above all others.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Your Grace.”

“Do you believe that the sins he committed were motivated by love for his sister?”

“Perhaps not all, but much of it, I suppose.”

“Then it cannot be so hard to imagine that his atonement was motivated by his love for another rather more noble influence.” As Jon speaks it, beside him, Sansa offers a quiet smile. The words and the warmth of the royal Starks takes Brienne quite by surprise, a wave of emotion washing over her as thick tears settle on her eyelashes.

“You made him decent,” Bran says distantly, the words capturing the assembly’s attention. His eyes meet Brienne’s and there’s a mutual understanding between them that flies over the heads of everyone else.  

It renders her speechless, her eyes drifting to Tyrion in anticipation of protest. He knew Jaime as well as anyone. He knew the good parts of him long before Brienne came into his life. And yet, when Tyrion speaks, it is only to say, “My brother was a complicated man but he was the only person who saw me as a human being, my whole childhood. I came to wonder sometimes where the boy who’d protected me from the rest of my family had gone. My sister’s poison would’ve destroyed him had it not been for you, Ser Brienne. If I must lose him, I am glad it is in such a way that I can remember the best of him.”

It is only the presence of an audience that prevents her tears from falling. Brienne reminds herself of the eyes upon her, mustering all the composure she can find to hold herself together, dignified as ever. She thinks of Jaime, of what teasing comment he’d rescue her with. She always knew where she stood when they were in the midst of a fight: whether with words or with swords.

Swallowing away the tightness in her throat, she offers an accepting nod.

“I will write what I know of Ser Jaime,” she promises. “Thank you.”

When it’s over, when the lords and ladies have disbanded, Sansa lingers to speak to Brienne directly. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the attack on King’s Landing, the first time since Brienne had abandoned her, and yet not a hint of admonishment lies in the new queen’s expression as she comes towards her. Sansa has a look of open relief at the reunion, a certain purpose about her as she quickens her pace on approach.

“I’m sorry you lost him, Lady Brienne,” she says, reaching to hold her hand over Brienne’s as they meet. The gesture comes as a surprise. It sends a jolt of emotion through Brienne, the physical contact a first since last she held Jaime, she realises immediately. The comfort of it follows close behind her shock, before Sansa adds warmly, “I know what he meant to you.”

Brienne digs out a deep breath to help clear the strangle in her throat before replying, “I thank you, my lady, but in truth I don’t know if he could’ve found peace in this life. He killed his sister and, despite her evil, he would have struggled to live with that.”

“I believe he would have tried for you.” Sansa squeezes her hand.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa.” Brienne gives a small nod. “I’m sorry, my lady, that I abandoned you without a word. I felt I must–”

“Lady Brienne.” Sansa stops. “ _Ser_ Brienne, as you are now. I trust you with my life. I trust your judgment. You believed in Ser Jaime, and now Cersei is gone. There is no apology needed.”

“Thank you, Lady Sansa.” Brienne contemplates it for a second and then smiles, tears glistening in her eyes as she corrects herself: “Your Grace.”

Sansa’s head bows at the title, a confused mixture of feelings hidden in the gesture. _She is still so young_ , Brienne can’t help but think, and yet she has a confidence in the young queen’s leadership that goes beyond even Renly’s. In Lady Catelyn’s daughter, she sees a great monarch, the kind that will rule with the admiration of all those she represents. Fair and just, as the Starks had always strived to be.

When Sansa looks back up at her, there’s a curious hesitation before she asks, “What will you do now?”

Brienne considers it, reflecting on the decision she’d made in a heartbeat as Jaime lay across the floor of the map room with the Keep crumbling around them. It had been a decision that defied all practicality and logic, but nevertheless she felt bound to it. “I will take him to Tarth. There, he can rest in peace. With the sapphire sea all around to protect him as it once protected me.”

“He didn’t need to go. He didn’t need to die for this,” Sansa says, a strange sorrow in her tone that Brienne finds herself moved by. It feels like affirmation of her word, as though her esteemed Queen in the North is at last recognising Jaime as the man she’d believed him to be all along. It is the approval that Lady Catelyn might never have been able to offer, the closest thing imaginable.

“Perhaps not, my lady, but he felt he had a debt to pay and there was still some Lannister within him in that regard.”

“You will come back after? Once you’ve laid him to rest.”

“I should very much like to return to your side, to protect you as I have promised to do.”

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa says, her posture straightening up a little as she speaks, “I wish for you to take all the time you need and see to your father, as you must surely wish to do. Upon your return, it is my intention to name you Commander of the Queensguard in the North. If you should wish it.”

Brienne can only stare at her momentarily, taking in the significance of the proposal. She musters a steadiness in her voice that she doesn’t feel as she replies, “I would be honoured, Your Grace.”

“Please, let it be just Sansa between you and I,” she leans in to whisper conspiratorially, the moment of formality passing. “My brothers will remain south to lead the realm from King’s Landing; my sister plans to set sail for gods know where. You are all the company I should have for some time. I would rather like us to speak as equals, as friends.”

“Friends,” Brienne repeats, as though testing out the word on her tongue. “It would be my honour, Lady Sansa.”

“It seems we’ll have to work on that,” she teases, a genuine smile forming at the lips of the young Stark queen.

“Sansa then,” Brienne offers, and it earns a grateful nod.

Taking Brienne by surprise once more, Sansa lets go of her hand to take her in a tight hug. “Do what you must, Ser Brienne, but don’t stay away too long. I will need you.”

“You have my word,” Brienne says, and they part on the promise.

 

*

 

It is with the support of her queen that Brienne sails to Tarth carrying the ashes of her lost Lannister. It marks a new start for both Brienne and Jaime, the crossing of the water feeling a little like a voyage to another life in more ways than one. The years of fighting are passed now, the threat of winter is over. She sets off early and watches the shining yellow sun rise across the sparkling sea, the home she’d never forgotten steadily coming into view as the ship approaches land.

It is every bit as beautiful as she remembers, the perfect place for a lion to rest at last. He’d always hated the cold of Winterfell and the curse of King’s Landing, while his love for Casterly Rock had been tarnished by memories of Cersei. When she truly considered where he belonged, Brienne had realised how dearly she would have loved to show Jaime her precious, modest isle in the bluest corner of the sea. At last, she would get to.

Brienne sets him free on the Sapphire Isle, the bright spring sun beating down across the green.

It is not the homecoming she had ever imagined, but there is a rightness to all things that she feels as she walks about her beloved Evenfall Hall now. It is the feeling of identity, embedded deep in the armour she wears so proudly as she walks about her father’s humble castle. The place itself is so comfortingly unchanged but, despite the many ways she knows that she has changed in her years away, it welcomes her just the same. Her ageing father greets her with all the relief that shows he’d long-feared they would never meet again.

She stays a short while, the calm of it allowing wounds of every nature to heal. The break provides her with time enough to consider the duties that await on the mainland. There will be great change at Winterfell with the departure of many of the soldiers and the responsibilities of her new role. More often, though, she thinks of the White Book and the task Jon had bestowed upon her. She contemplates how to put into words the man who had been ready to die for her so many times over, who had loved her like no other. It consumes her thoughts through warm afternoons spent out by the water, the nights often catching her in grief.

In the end, she returns to King’s Landing to write the page that bears the name of Ser Jaime Lannister anew. Every word is imbued with the love of a good, honourable woman who knew the very best of him. History will come to remember the good, as it is recorded for posterity by Ser Brienne of Tarth in the White Book. The children of the Seven Kingdoms will one day sing songs of the fallen knight who became, in death, the golden knight once more.

He will be remembered as the man who slayed the Mad King to save all of King’s Landing.

He will be remembered as the man who lost a hand and fought a bear to protect a lady’s honour and her life.

He will be remembered as the man who rode north to fight the dead and help end the Long Night, wielding the remastered sword of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.

He will be remembered as the man who killed his own kin to prevent the next great war.

He will be remembered as the man who armed, armoured and knighted Ser Brienne of Tarth, Evenstar of the Sapphire Isle and Commander of the Queensguard in the North.

He will be remembered.

When she completes the entry with his final act of sacrifice, Brienne lays the pen down at the side of the book and appraises every word. His story is laid out before her, the very best of the Jaime she had known living on through the written word, ready to become a part of the legends that will pass down through generations.

Hers, though, remains unfinished.

Brienne closes the book, rising from her seat with all the weight of the northern Queensguard armour bearing down upon her, and walks out to write the rest of her own story.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *cue Natasha Bedingfield’s seminal hit ‘Unwritten’*
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought and, ya know, feel free to share your J/B pain with me anytime. 
> 
> (Also, I wrote the ending section about the White Book before the last episode aired – long before it became my new favourite meme – and then they kinda did the thing for real. Gwen was spectacular, even if the writing wasn't always.)


End file.
